


Build God, Then We'll Talk

by akisawana



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/M, Gun Kink, Pegging, Prostitution, Secret Santa 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 09:29:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13120926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akisawana/pseuds/akisawana
Summary: Tex has a door that needs opening. York's in a a new line of work now.





	Build God, Then We'll Talk

**Author's Note:**

> Note the first: Written for the Red vs Blue Secret Santa 2017, for [lone-chicken](lone-chicken.tumblr.com). Prompt was
>
>>  
>> 
>> _I don’t even know... something emotional? Not necessarily angst, it could be happy emotions (tho angst is very good). I just like all the characters in general, and seeing how they interact with each other in different scenarios and from different writers’/artists’ perspectives. (Sorry I’m bad at specificity.) It’d be cool if someone had an idea they wanted to do but hadn’t gotten around to it yet? Is that a prompt?_  
> 
> 
> As it turns out, I had hooker!York waiting very patiently for a turn!
> 
> Note the second: Here be facepalmingly unsafe sex.

Tex holds up an apple pie, store-bought and probably gross, when York opens the door. “Tex?” He sounds confused, like that wasn’t the name she put into the website. The website where she hired a goddamn hooker with a familiar scar, posed with one foot up on a bench like the guy on the rum bottle. It had been a joke, all those years ago, when Omega suggested it and Delta ran with it. It wasn’t funny then and it isn’t funny now.

“York,” she says, waiting to be invited in. “Where’s Delta?”

“Sleeps when I’m working.” He steps back and she walks in the shitty motel room. There’s a table she sets the pie on, and two chairs, and a cheap tv on a cheaper dresser, and a bed covered with a truly hideous polyester comforter that she can’t decide if it’s subtly patterned or just incredibly filthy. “Where’s Omega?” York asks, and she ignores him, making a circuit around the room. It’s less secure than Red Team’s goddamn fridge.

Instead of answering, she sits at the table and watches York cut them each a slice of pie. He was too skinny in the picture and he’s even skinnier now. She wonders how much muscle he’s lost. If he even still has his armor. “What are you _doing_?” 

York doesn’t ask for clarification, looking down at his pie. “Not breaking any laws,” he huffs with a bitter laugh.

Tex waits. She wants to take him away with a ferocity that burns almost like lust in her palms, wants to grab him and carry him away to the front lines. Why can’t she manage to save anyone? 

“And not getting shot,” he adds, breaking the silence.

Tex knows, when he says that, that she’s not convincing him to come back with her. Not to Blood Gulch, where Red Team has an annoying tendency to shoot at them, not to Blue Base, where they have annoying tendency to shoot each other. And most assuredly, she can’t take him with her chasing down Wyoming and Doc, Gamma and Omega, people who will shoot him on sight.

No, she’s going to have to leave him, in this shitty motel room, with stranger’s hands on his body, scraping by one day at a time. There are the shadows of bruises where his shirtsleeves ride up and under his eyes, and yellow nicotine stains on his fingers. Omega can wait, she’d make Omega wait, but she doesn’t know how to _fix_ this.

“You’re not eating,” York says softly, breaking her out of her reverie.

“Can’t.” York deserves more, has earned the right to know why she hasn’t even touched the plastic fork he laid out for her. “There was a fucker with a grenade.”

“I know how that goes,” York says, on his feet and coming around the table. “How bad is it? Can I see?” He puts his hands on either side of her helmet, and Tex _would_ let him, if she could.

Instead she covers his hands with her own. “There’s nothing to see,” she says, voice not filtered through speakers but synthesized. “Nobody was there with lockdown paint. There’s nothing under the helmet.” This is her now. It feels more honest than the half-blasted vegetable she wore before.

York does not let go, tracing the lines of her helmet. It’s no different on the outside than the one she wore for so long before, so similar to the gold one he once wore himself. “You’re lucky to be you, then,” is all he says. “You’re still you.”

Tex would give him a wry smile, if she could. She settles for a shrug and a tilt of her helmet against his hand. York was once a soldier, he knows all the little messages in the angle of a visor.

“Is it more sensitive as the standard-issue armor?” York asks, and his hands are very gentle on the pressure sensors, like he could actually _hurt_ her.

“Not really.” York always had the ability to draw more words than she’d usually use out of her, and he still does, and so once again she tells him more than she planned, maybe more than she should. “But it’s all I got, so it feels more.”

York nods, like that made any goddamn sense, and he moves down to her shoulders, tracing the seam there. Tex lets her hands drift to his hips and tug him closer, guides him to stand between her knees. Her gloves are not the gentlest, but she is careful as building a bomb. She can feel the bones under his skin, and she could crush them to powder.

That’s not the thought that thrills her, but the knowledge that he knows that, that he comes easy as falling where she moves him, that he doesn’t hesitate. That York trusts her, knows what she is and doesn’t care, runs his hands over her chestplate, that’s the thought that sends desire tripping electric over wires.

York licks his lips, and Tex wants to kiss him, and he wants to kiss her, and they cannot kiss. But Tex can slide one heavy hand into his hair, and she pulls him to the cooling-vent on the side of her helmet, where hot air blows out like breath. She can feel the shiver of his spine as it caresses his face, hear the soft hiss and knows he’s closed his eyes.

There are still ways, of a sort, for Tex to enjoy purely physical pleasure with this new body, two parts memory and one part fantasy playing out entirely in her head. York wouldn’t be able to help her directly...but he could give her something to remember later, and Tex thinks he would look very good naked on that ugly-ass comforter. She’d like to see him wrecked around her fingers, begging for her cock.

Pity she had to take apart her toys for the greater good.

“You like this?” Tex asks, synthesized voice as low as she can make it but still audible. She pushes her knee between his legs, and the heat against her armor answers her in one sense. She needs to hear him say it out loud, needs to give him the choice she never got, the choice to walk away without someone trying to drag her back.

“Yeah,” York says, rocking against her thigh in what can only be called enthusiastic consent. “Can you feel this?” he asks, before thrusting his naked fingers into the gap at her shoulder.

Oh, that’s something new, his clever locksmith hands deep in the joint, where he could so easily incapacitate her. The sensors there are calibrated in proportion to how bad something jammed in there would be, and his fleeting touch sends sharp sparks of danger skittering to join the growing pool of heat that is entirely mental, new and exciting and she puts some roughness in her voice when she says yes.

Tex wishes she could kiss him properly, steal his breath, but she has to settle for her hands slipping under his shirt and finding his skin, brushing over old scars, trying not to let his hair catch where the plates flex. York keeps exploring the thin kevlar laid over delicate mechanisms, mirroring her fingers along his bones at first, then up to delve into her neck, pressed very close while she kneads his ass.

He whines at that, wordless and low in his throat, and Tex wishes she could close her mouth over the sound. She can’t, and she can’t feel his nipples pebbled hard under his shirt, pressed against her chestplate, but she knows they are from the way he pulls back just so slightly. Tex draws her hands up his back, rucking up his shirt. As nice as his hands in her body are, it would be better to have him helpless and moaning under her, giving her control over something. She brushes her thumb over one of those perky nipples, wishes she could smirk at the way he grinds down hard into her thigh, his hands clinging to her shoulders. “What can you d-do?” he asks, breath quick and fast.

Tex tilts her helmet at him. “Let’s find out,” she says, palming him roughly through his pants. He yelps and clings tighter to her, his hips rolling to chase her touch as she outlines his cock with heavy fingers. Tex likes that, really likes the way he wants more, the way he’s unravelling so easily under her hands.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, D’s going to regret missing this,” York says, and her little brother is absolutely not someone she wants to be thinking about right now. She can’t shut York up with teeth and tongue so she settles, pulls his blind side to her helmet and blows, runs her hand down his spine as he arches into her, dips her fingers below his waistband.

Those pants need to go, now.

Tex scoops him up, and his grip tightens as his feet leave the floor, but he hooks his legs around her hips, and she likes that too, likes having him trusting in her grip, likes the way he doesn’t so much as suggest she set him down on the table or the bed or carry him off to El Paso. It’s the bed she goes to, and she lays him down, mindful not to drop him. It would be shitty of her to repay his trust like that, when his face is still buried in her neck and she has to pull him, gently but firmly, away.

York’s face is red, flush going down his neck, spreading under his shirt and over his heaving chest. She presses her hand briefly against his neck to feel his pulse, hummingbird fast, and then stretches him out on the bed with one hand pinning his wrists to the comforter and the other headed for his belt, trailing still-cool knuckles across his skin. He doesn’t fight so much as interfere in an attempt to help her strip off his clothes, but it’s no harder than cleaning a weapon.

That gives her an idea.

York’s balls are heavy and cool in her hand, he’s hard and leaking already. Tex wraps her hand around him but she can already tell it won’t be good for him, if it’s even enough. Her hands are only gentle out of very precise movement. There is no softness in her, no give, and not enough lube in the galaxy to make up the difference. Instead she lets go and runs her hand lower, brushes her blunt fingers against his entrance. She can’t feel how soft the skin is there, but she can feel how eagerly he lets her in with the slightest pressure. “I want to fuck you,” she says, pulling out, not wanting to go farther than a single fingertip dry.

“How?” he asks, trying to follow her withdrawal. “Do you have a metal cock?”

Not on her, she doesn’t, but she has something almost as good. “Do you have lube?”

“Pants pocket.” York stays where she put him, his arms stretched above his head in a lovely curve while she finds his lube. Tex coats two fingers in a generous amount and presses back in without any resistance she can feel, any hesitation on his face.

That’s not something she wants to think about, the easy way he accepts her fingers. The practiced way he accommodates her intrusion, the quiet moans that maybe aren’t faked but definitely aren’t accidental. No, Tex focuses on how hot it is around her fingers, how careful she’ll have to be. She looks up at him, makes sure she hasn’t somehow hurt him beyond speech.

He shudders, and reaches out to her, but he also thrusts against her fingers. York may be beyond speech, but he’s not protesting in any way. Instead he grounds himself with one hand on her knee and one hand on his own cock. “You like it rough?” she asks, twisting a third finger in there.

“I, I can take what, ah, whatever you give me,” he says with a grin.

Tex nods, and unclips her sidearm, and drops it into his lap. “Unload it,” she orders, three fingers buried knuckle-deep in his ass. It’s not a large caliber pistol, but it’s got just enough corners to make it interesting. No sights at least, she filed them smooth a long time ago because they threw off her targeting. She’s thankful for that now.

York picks it up, holds it above his face, and turns it over without saying a word.

“You want me to fuck you?” she asks him, still stretching him in preparation. “I left my cock at home. It’s that or nothing.”

“I s-said I could take anything you - you gave me,” he stammers, and he pulls the magazine out with shaking fingers, drops it off the side of the bed. “Just fuck me already,” he pleads, his hands and voice trembling with want, and he holds the gun out to her grip first.

Taking it, Tex ejects the chambered round with one hand. “Maybe I shouldn’t after all.”

She’s not expecting York to slam his head back against the pillow and moan like he’s eating really good Chinese dumplings.

Tex guesses she found his prostate.

“Please,” York begs, and she’s never heard him beg before but oh, she likes it. He’s got tears in his eyes and his lips are soft and slick and red from his own teeth. Tex withdraws, grabs his ankle and presses his knee up to his chest. He hooks the other around her hip, and twines his arms around her neck, and she leans over him with their heads close together, close enough she can count his eyelashes as they flutter. She circles his hole with the muzzle, cold against heated flesh, hard and unyielding against the last bit of softness he has left.

“Please,” he begs again, rolling his hips, arching his shoulders, his hands patting at her back. “Please, Tex, I need you, please, fuck me. Allison, please.”

York’s the only one who says Allison and means Tex, and that’s why she gives him what he asks for. She’d do a lot for this man, for the way he says her name, for the way he knows the truth and doesn’t doubt she’s a person when even Tex herself does. Even before then, when all he knew was that she was a new recruit facing live rounds on the training room floor and so he came to help her. And she doesn’t know how big it is, what she would do for him. When she would tell him no.

That scares her, or it should, but she trusts him to not ask for things she won’t give. York never asked her to give up on Church, even when she should have, and she can’t name the feeling that colors her thoughts at the mere thought of him. She thinks she might be able to if she tried, but she’s afraid to, and it doesn’t matter anyways. What would it change?

Nothing.

Tex fucks him slow at first, taking the measure of the gun and his reaction to it, watching his face, watching how his whole body is flushed, the way his mouth works, too overwhelmed to remember how to speak. She doesn’t keep a steady rhythm but changes it up to keep him on edge, now slow and deep, now light and teasing, now angled this way, now angled that. He chases it as best he can with shitty leverage and her playing with him, his forgotten cock red and leaking against his belly and Tex is pretty sure she can make him come without touching it.

So she fucks him faster, harder, hard as she dares, the now-warm metal of the gun stroking over his prostate, until he’s crying out and arching against her, praise and curses and all three of her names pouring out of his mouth in long tangled strings. It’s a little like picking a lock, Tex thinks, or at least how picking a lock looks in the movies. Precise touches at just the right angle, a puzzle to solve of three clockwise circles and a twisting double tap. If she just finds the perfect vector, falls into a rhythm… There. York is suddenly silent as he tenses, white shooting up his chest as he comes so hard she thinks he might have passed out for about thirty seconds.

It feels a little sinister to save tonight to permanent storage, even though it’s not all that different from how York’s memory works. Tex will watch it again and again later, when she’s alone. Now, instead, she eases the gun out, wipes him off with a handful of cheap tissues from the box on the nightstand. He opens his eyes halfway through but doesn’t move, just watches her limply, a tiny smile on his face.

Tex reaches up and cups his cheek with her hand. His scarred cheek, the one she’s allowed to touch whenever the hell she feels like it. Half because she’s the reason it wasn’t worse, half because she so rarely does. York is wrecked, destroyed, his hair sweaty and sticking in half a dozen directions, his bottom lip swollen from biting, his chest imprinted with the seams of her armor in red lines. Tex realizes, or finally admits to herself, that she doesn’t want to hear him tell her no.

So she doesn’t ask. She’ll find some other way to get Wyoming’s door open. Maybe Andy will do it.

“I have to go,” she says instead. “I have things to do. Keep safe.” It’s not easy to stand up, but Tex never gets to do anything easy.

“Wait,” he says while she’s looking for the dropped magazine. Will her gun ever be clean again? If it jams, it’ll do it at the worst possible moment, that’s the way her luck always runs. “Tex. Why did you even come here in the first place?”

Tex stands up and shrugs. “Checking in on my team. Tell Delta I said hi. And that he owes me ten bucks.”

“Tex.” York leans towards her, his hands on his knees, his face set into a battle mask. “Where is Omega?”

“He’s next.” This is one battle Tex isn’t taking him into. One person that she can protect, one person she won’t have to sacrifice to Omega’s temper tantrums. Whatever happens with Wyoming and those fucking aliens and her idiots in the canyon, at least York will be hidden away, safe as locked file, untouchable as a dead wife and considerably easier to see again.

She does not say good-bye when she leaves. She will come back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
